A Night of Distractions
by GreenEponine
Summary: Feuilly's late coming home from work, and Jehan gets a bit paranoid. Another fluffy one shot, because I'm still trying to get "Cheurs Folles" retrieved from my hard drive.


_Hey, everybody! I'm still waiting to get the rest of "Cheurs Folles" back from my wrecked computer, but I have another silly little one shot. Just another Jehan/Feuilly, though this one is kinda angsty, in a cute way._

_Disclaimer: If I were Hugo, my French would be much, much better._

A Night of Distractions

Jehan was sitting at his desk one night, waiting for Martin to come home from work, and waiting for his poem to come back to back to him. He sighed and absently stabbed the paper he'd been thinking on. Sometimes, when his poems seemed stinted and the skies seemed dark, he hated being alone. The world seemed to close in on him and to keep him from any of the beautiful, soaring thoughts he needed to write his poetry, and Jehan felt he could only see the dark of the night, had lost all hint of the dawn afterwards.

Jehan sighed again and twisted in is chair. Where _was _Martin? Why on earth had he not made it home yet? Their shared flat seemed far, far too large and far, far too quiet without Martin in it, almost oppressively so, and the silence tonight was simply too silent, too apprehensive, too worrisome. The silence tonight gave Jehan too much room to fret and worry, to linger in thoughts dark and dreary about Martin's delay. Suppose Martin had been waylaid by cruel, heartless thugs in some alley, and now lay, flung aside and abandoned, bleeding to death and waiting for Jehan to come find him? Suppose Martin had been found out as a revolutionary sympathizer and had been arrested and taken somewhere Jehan would never be able to find him? Suppose-

No, no. Jehan was simply being silly. Martin was fine. He was just late, was all. He was just doing something extra for his boss, perhaps painting an elaborate design on a fan ordered at the last second-Jehan had seen a few of Feuilly's painted fans, and they were quite good enough that Jehan could understand why his boss would ask him to stay and paint another fan after his shift was over for the day.

A terrible thought struck Jehan. Perhaps Martin no longer loved him, had simply decided to abandon Jehan, never come back, never even tell Jehan, just leave without a glance back. What on earth would he do without Martin, if the fan maker suddenly decided he no longer loved Jehan?

Jehan could feel himself sweeping into a stream of depression and darkness as he gazed out the window. If Martin were not coming back…

No, no, no. Jehan was simply being silly again, Martin wouldn't leave him, not like that. Martin loved him, he'd certainly said it enough times; he had no reason to worry.

He had to stop himself from worrying, to distract himself, finish the poem, read a book, play his flute, do anything, anything at all so he would not worry so.

Jehan shook himself and turned back to his poem. The poem, that poem he'd wanted to write all day, would simply not appear. The poem would dance occasionally into his sight, spring away when he tried to see it. He could barely get the words to fit together. He tapped his pen again and again against the desk, leaving small mars on the already scarred wood. The poem simply would not come to him.

Jehan stood, suddenly, flinging his pen far away. How could he write at all when he had no idea where Martin was? This waiting, for Martin, for his poem, was really quite frustrating.

Perhaps he ought to read, to pass the time until Martin came, to keep himself from worrying. Jehan proceeded to his bookshelf, grabbed his well-worn copy of the Divine Comedy. Perhaps a good dose of Dante's divinely fascinating journey would distract him from the worries about Martin still swirling through his horribly distracted mind.

Jehan opened the book, wincing inwardly as the first few pages fell out onto the floor, scattering about him. Martin loved to tease him about the state of his books, calling him Romantically silly for being so attached to his emaciated texts.

Ah, Martin! Where was Martin? Suppose he really had been waylaid in alley, suppose he really had been arrested! Suppose he was simply never coming back to Jehan! Suppose, suppose, suppose.

No! Silence! Jehan commanded his wildly overflowing thoughts. Martin was fine, he tried to convince himself, Martin was just working late, or talking to a friend, or… or… Well, it didn't really matter what Martin was doing, as long as he was safe.

Jehan stared blindly at the book in his hands. Reading, even his beloved Dante, was not an option now. It seemed as if nothing would distract him.

Jehan sighed loudly. His flute caught his eyes from where it rested across the room. Perhaps he could play his flute and try to forget that Martin was not yet home? It seemed reasonable.

Jehan stood and dropped the book, wandering over to his flute and taking it in his hands, spinning it for a second as he tried to calm himself. Martin would be home, soon. He hadn't run into trouble; he was safe and sound and probably getting something for dinner. Jehan was really, really trying to convince himself of this, truly, he was.

He perched on his desk, facing the window so he could see Martin if he came home down the street the window overlooked. If only Martin would appear on the boulevard at that moment, coming home, happy to be off work, happy to see Jehan again.

Jehan took a deep breath and began to play, hoping trying to remember the notes and intricacies of the music would help him to forget that Martin had not yet arrived home. He missed a note, then another, another, another. Would nothing distract him from Martin's prolonged return?

Jehan dropped his flute on the desk and dashed across the room to hunt for his collection of music. Perhaps he could learn a new song, something bright and happy, and actually distract himself this time.

Jehan flipped through the music. Too dreary, too depressing, already knew that one, too complicated, far too simple. The sheets of notes and rests scattered onto the ground around him, creating a circle around him. None of this would do, none at all. Why was Martin still not home? What if Martin was never coming home again?

The door swung open behind Jehan. He jumped and turned to face the open door.

Martin stood there, in the doorway, holding a wrapped quiche, with an apologetic look on his face, "Sorry I'm late, cher, I was held up at work. Someone wanted a repair to a fan right before my shift ended and-"

Jehan leapt up and cut off Martin with an exuberant embrace, Martin had been safe all along. He hadn't decided he didn't love Jehan, he hadn't been waylaid in some dismal alley, he hadn't been arrested. He was here, he loved Jehan same as always. Jehan felt as if he could write a thousand poems in that moment.

Martin returned the embrace awkwardly-holding wrapped quiches made things like embraces slightly complicated- and kissed Jehan's cheek, then said, a definite twinkle in his eye, "Jehan, just wondering," A quick survey of the disturbed room, the pen flung aside, the papers and flute scattered on the desk, the book losing its pages where it had been abandoned by the bookshelf, the cacophony of music on the floor, "How ever did you spend this afternoon?"

_And that's that. I hope you liked it. See that little button down there? If you press it and review, it'll make Jehan and Feuilly really, really happy. So, please, review. Thanks!_


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